


Frozen in Fire

by Alethia



Category: King Arthur (2004)
Genre: Arthur is a Martyr, Camelot, F/M, Hate Sex, Lancelot Pushes, M/M, Pining, Visions, What-If
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-09-23
Updated: 2004-09-23
Packaged: 2018-01-10 01:54:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1153367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alethia/pseuds/Alethia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The future is shrouded, obscured from our view. But sometimes the fog lifts and, just for an instant, we see the possibilities. A ‘what if’ in three movements.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Frozen in Fire

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted [here](http://alethialia.livejournal.com/96817.html).

Arthur—was a damned fool.

Lancelot stalked through the trees, still angry with that self-righteous, self-involved prick, and he was not wholly inclined to see him.

Battles were battles. What made this one different—and therefore worthy of Arthur’s best impression of one of his martyrs—was utterly incomprehensible.

The Woads had scattered, as they always did, the pathetic cowards. So at least for a moment Lancelot had some peace, even if he could still hear the fight dying slowly, glory of the victory stolen by one man’s complete inability to get out of his foolish, if pretty, head.

Really, Arthur must work at it. He must _practice_ , he was so good at all that brooding. Lancelot wouldn’t be surprised.

He stopped short, the musky scent of water clinging to this place. He caught sight of the pool, unassuming and infusing all of this with a stillness that made his mind fly to Tristan. Arthur on his knees. 

Lancelot shuffled over, feeling the ache in his thigh now that the battle rush had fled like so many Woads into the mist. He thought of fresh water and bloody hands, only to forget it in an instant. The pool was perfectly still, but a tiny little dart of—something caught his attention. As Lancelot neared he could swear he’d seen some kind of movement—a shimmer, maybe, but the water was completely unmoving. Hell, everything was unmoving; no breeze stirred in the trees and even the sounds of wildlife, the battle winding down seemed to narrow, fade away the nearer he got.

He kneeled at the edge and leaned over to look, his haggard reflection greeting him, looming ever closer.

His lion—he’d taken to wearing it about his neck—slipped free and just touched the water, pawing at it.

And—and his reflection, it, it seemed to shift, smirking at him. But that couldn’t be right because it was his reflection and he wasn’t smirking. The illogic of it becoming irrelevant when his reflection _shifted_ , the water roiling around it, though the picture was unaffected. It cocked its head and smiled evilly.

Lancelot didn’t even have time to jerk in surprise before he felt a harsh tug at his neck, saw the lion disappear into the water, just before _he_ disappeared, right into the laughing face of a silvery woman, long dark hair swallowed into the deep.

***

Lancelot felt curling whispers of memories not his own filter in, a first rejection at a familiar pond, Arthur denying what was in his eyes and turning away, leaving a desolation in the form of a drenched Lancelot. A wrenching moment, coloring his life since then, blood-red anguish that never departed. Pushed away firmly, like something unwanted and uncared for, a safe distance secreting the lie to both of them. 

More memories. Saving a woman—a Woad?—in the heat of battle, something important about that.

Guinevere. That was her name. And she took Arthur from him, took whatever she wanted.

A long stretch of years behind him—building a castle, a city, a nation, rising out of swirling mist to captivate a land and unite a people. Years of heartache and battle and rule, the ache old and shrouded by dust, but still did it cut so _deep_. 

It was like—feeling what someone else was feeling, the emotions all tangled up with his own, yet he was still a distinct person. It was like—he was a part of this other, bleeding into him in the most intimate way, able to hear and feel and think exactly what he did while keeping his own self gripped in a tight fist.

It was—voyeurism at its ultimate and Lancelot felt a momentary flush of shame, before he realized that one, it was _himself_ and two, it wasn’t like he knew how to stop it.

At least, he was pretty sure it was himself. Same memories, same gut-deep identification as Lancelot. But, there were new things. His body felt heavier, moved slower, like he was under water, or had just had an extra practice go at Arthur.

Water. The thought tugged at him. He knew it should be important, but he couldn’t quite grasp onto the wisp of the thought. And then it was gone and he was feeling things through senses he dully recognized, as if filtered through branches of a tree, the light just reaching him but half-obstructed.

It dimly occurred to him he was looking for someone, walking slow and sure down long stone halls, a place he recognized but didn’t. 

Arthur looked up when Lancelot entered the room. Oh, Arthur. Of course.

Arthur watched him, tracking his movements, a question in his eyes and a distance behind that. The pain at the look was familiar, not his own, yet still it was. It gave him the impetus to speak.

“Arthur I have served you for long years, through battle and the birth of this country, and now in peace, when your rule is heralded far and wide and your leadership unites a nation.” Speaking slowly, something—guttural. He didn’t know this language. And yet he did, sounds familiar from battlefields and—patient lessons from a much lighter Arthur.

This Arthur looked wary. “You have. You have been one of my most faithful knights.”

Lancelot looked away from that gaze, unable to meet its force. “I have served you for long years,” he agreed, ignoring the twinge of betrayal he felt at not voicing his own thoughts on the matter. Thoughts and feelings that were becoming ever harder to resist, to keep distinct from himself.

Whatever this was slowly _pulled_ , sucked him into a maelstrom of doubt and longing and a pain so deep it numbed his throat and filled his lungs with water.

“What troubles you, Lancelot? I can see that something does.” He moved forward, proximity always one of his weapons, even if he’d been naïve to its power. Lancelot felt it slide along his skin, calling to him, but after so long he could do nothing.

He forced himself to look up, to meet Arthur’s eyes as he said what had been _years_ in coming. “You no longer need me.,” he said softly, amazed it came out so steady. He thought repudiating all his beliefs would have been harder, though the sharp lance of pain at Arthur’s shock adjusted for it.

“What—of course I do,” Arthur said, coming closer still, resting a mournfully _friendly_ hand on his shoulder. Image-dreams of so much more with those hands filtered through Lancelot’s haze, decades of wanting the fantastic, and it firmed his resolve.

“No,” he said, voice harder now. “No, your rule is assured. You have a kingdom and loyal subjects and a beautiful wife.” He tried not to choke on the last, image of Guinevere flaying at his skin.

“Lancelot—” Arthur was at a loss, like he never saw _this_ coming. And…neither did Lancelot. Once upon a time he would have sworn eternal allegiance no matter the price.

The price, it turned out, was an unbearable burden, a yoke of slavery tied in chains of grief. No man could withstand that. Even the best.

“Arthur,” he said, bringing his hand to Arthur’s shoulder, squeezing in brotherhood, wanting something else entirely. “Do not resist. You know I have only ever spoken the truth to you. Indeed, I was one of the few who would.”

He stilled, hard metal flashing in his eyes. “You swore to serve me, to eternity and beyond.”

“And I have filled that promise until today. But now I ask a favor. I ask as someone who’s never asked you for anything but to be here: release me. Release me from your service and grant me my freedom.” Easier to say than he would have thought, dull realization dawning in Arthur’s eyes worsening the blow.

“You have always had your freedom, Lancelot. I never—”

Lancelot lifted a hand, interrupting. “Yes, yes. I know. I am a free man, I make my own choices.” He stopped, ceasing the mocking that had entered there. After so long, Arthur did deserve some things. But not that. “I want freedom from you. I want not to feel the weight of my desperation drag me under.”

Understanding flashed in Arthur’s eyes, followed quickly by anguish. “Lancelot.” He sounded resigned. “I did not intend to cause you pain.”

Lancelot chuckled, dark and thankfully dry, pulling his hand away. “Arthur. What else have you ever caused me?”

The stricken look brought him back to himself, reminding him that this was _Arthur_ , and that he did not deserve this. “I apologize, my lord. That was cruel of me.”

“A bit of cruelty I deserve, I think.” He paused, seeming to struggle with the right words. “I only wanted to protect you.”

“The only thing I ever needed protection from was _you_ ,” Lancelot snarled, angry now. Visions of what could have been danced through his mind and he pushed back, refused to fall into that trap again. 

Arthur squeezed his shoulder again, resettling in front of him, robe caressing the floor lightly. “I would not have you give your life for me.”

“But I already have,” he said, looking away again, only Arthur’s hiss of pain letting him know he’d aimed fairly.

The wink of the ring on that hand forced him to look over, watch as Arthur pulled back, a grief and sorrow and weight of years in Arthur’s eyes. And perhaps some desire, as well.

The knowledge only hurt more.

Arthur finally nodded, anguished but still suffering through it, as he always did. “All right. I release you from my service, Lancelot, my first knight. You are free to leave Camelot with my blessings. Of course, you may return at any time.” It was an offer, driven by hope, and even that cut a little bit deeper. For to live here was not to live at all and he knew he had to leave, to get away from Arthur and Guinevere and the whole mess if he was ever to live with himself.

The thought—struck him with a blow no man had ever been able to. After so many years, just the thought of leaving was—incomprehensible. Until he’d come here, he never thought that vision could possibly exist. It was—nebulous and abstract.

And here it was. It had been so long, he had never lived on his own, without Arthur, not really. Not since he was but a boy. And that realization was just settling in, frost spreading under his skin at the prospect of a life beyond this man.

It was an intolerable position: to live free, away from Arthur, or not to live here, in his closest confidences. There was a time Lancelot would have chosen Arthur over anything. That time had passed, smoke carried on the wind.

Lancelot bowed, stepping away and turning, each step he took more painful than the last, until the last agony of death sliced through him with every breath.

There was no one waiting for him out there, beyond the walls of Camelot. It had been too long for that and he knew what had happened to his tribe. He had nowhere to go.

And still he walked. For out there he might seek hope. In here it had died, taking its twisting, flailing last breath on the damnable, ash-ridden altar of duty.

***

This was—different. He was back in Camelot and it was…off. The halls were darker, the voices quieter. People only glanced sideways at him, never looked directly.

There was some raking pain at this, raw and needy, but recognition there, too. Nothing unusual, then. Familiar, if not welcomed.

Different memories. At that damned lake, a kiss and a denial, giving a lie to green eyes he knew as well as any. Years spread out since then, saving Guinevere, the rise of Britain under the careful direction of its good rulers, painful deaths of the few he’d called friends. Utter, aching loneliness, Arthur forever unable to fully let him back in.

Guinevere’s smirk, that bitch.

Settling into memories like he did it all the time, scarily comfortable, no will to resist.

Lancelot searched for Arthur, unsettled by the lack of the man abounding in these halls, that sun-bright presence that should flow all throughout the place Arthur built. It wasn’t here; this was frigid and pale, stone of the great castle sucking up the cold from the outside and intensifying it, passing it along to all who wandered its halls. Even the torches seemed more like grudging concessions to the inhabitants than any real attempt to give warmth, light.

Amazing how little could change the entire meaning of a place. He could feel Guinevere even now.

Quiet. Too quiet. Still as death and Lancelot had had enough of that, didn’t fight for so long to see it take up residence in what was supposed to be a shining new example to the fools of the world.

He stopped when he heard the discontented rumblings of voices, the clink of dinnerware. Of course. It was late; he was missing dinner.

Everyone looked up when he entered, most averting eyes and looking back to their plates. He didn’t feel it as much when Arthur watched him so, eyes burning, chasing away the chill from the halls and filling Lancelot with a warmth he could never tire of.

Old longings stirred in his gut, the desire to gorge on all that _life_ , all that passion, even though the glimmer had dimmed the last few years. Age took away so much of their fire, no matter how deeply they felt it, how thoroughly it seared into their bones, signing intent in an invisible, bloody brand.

“Lancelot.” Like a blast of frozen air, a frigid lake he’d left years ago, contracting that brief flare until it cracked, hope and passion crushed to little more than a very fine, icy-white powder. 

“My Queen,” Lancelot bowed first to her, catching the full-force of her ire. He turned to Arthur, again bowing in deference, meaning it this time. “I apologize for my tardiness.”

“It is good to know we’re such a high priority,” Guinevere said, sipping from a goblet, gold shadow painting her skin a sickly yellow.

“I apologize again. I—forgot.” Lancelot was acutely aware that he sounded like an idiot, that the statement was like the most exquisite music to the group seated at the table, save Arthur. Their amusement was palpable and it would strangle him if he didn’t take care. It didn’t help that he spoke a language that still felt foreign to him, even more so than that damned Latin.

Not that he was ever one for pretty words, anyway.

“How extraordinary,” she said, silkily intertwining so much malice in so mild a statement. Really, one of Guinevere’s great strengths had always been the ability to eviscerate her opponents with little more than a few sentences and pointed glance.

And yet—Lancelot was still in Camelot. He had a feeling Arthur’s presence was the only thing that saved him an early exit from this life. He should be thankful; he supposed it was enough that the bitterness always died on his tongue.

Silence stretched and looped, folding in on itself into something beyond discomfort, beyond hostility, so bleak it didn’t even have a name.

Arthur cracked it, as always. “Lancelot, come. Join us. Guinevere has kept your place for you.” A grateful glance sent her way and Arthur still did not see. Or chose not to. 

Arthur had always been blinded by the magnificence that was Guinevere. The years had been just as painful on him, maybe more so. The early fighting of the tribes had taken everything and more for Arthur to handle and after, his strength never seemed the same, leeched out by the frozen earth, a tribute to a land that took all and expected more. 

Lancelot understood this. Still, Arthur’s dedicated blindness froze a little more of his heart every time, these days so much so that Lancelot couldn’t believe there was anything left, that he could still feel for Arthur.

He sat at Arthur’s right hand, as always, and smiled at the other man in thanks. Servants brought food, filled his goblet, attended to his every want, though even their service left a cool breeze in its wake, eyes stinging and nostrils burning.

“Guinevere was speaking of the musicians sent by the Iceni. The most ‘mesmerizing treachery’ you’ve ever heard, isn’t that right?” Arthur directed this to Guinevere, sitting grand and glacial at her end of the table, pale in a blue that reminded him of long years past.

“Yes. You should hear them play, Lancelot.”

“Of course, my Queen. I would be honored.” Over his dead body. Held his tongue for Arthur’s sake. He well knew that Guinevere had never had his best interests at heart and these last years had seen him moving ever-away from her iciness. It didn’t seem worth it any longer.

“Yes, you would find their music— _familiar_.”

Lancelot took a desperate gulp from his goblet—and knew his mistake. Bitter tang of death already worming down, spreading its tendrils into every hollow in his body, telltale tingling already laying fog heavy over his mind. He looked to his Queen, eyes gold-bright and watching.

He drained the glass.

She didn’t even react, watching impassively as the first lances of pain ripped through his chest, stealing a cold breath he no longer wanted to take anyway.

The thought that he was dying didn’t seem so urgent somehow, like it wasn’t unexpected. Really, his only question was why she’d waited so long. And who would blame the Queen, beautiful as a sculpture and with as much life? 

But he did. He knew that triumph in her eyes, had seen it every time Arthur had embraced her, Arthur had chosen her over Lancelot. Years of accumulation made that special revenge and him old comrades. And now she would win, get what she had so desired for so long.

The thought tasted like snowflakes on his tongue.

***

Back to Camelot and that was getting tiresome. The ache in his joints didn’t help, either. He had a feeling it’d be better if it weren’t so cold. But it was always cold here.

The flood of his history was familiar by now, recognition of the path his life had taken, from conscription to his first meeting with Arthur to yet another disastrous meeting at the lake. Falling into something deep and terrifying, dry lips pressed to wet ones, a melding so complete the wind whistled its approval and the earth sang. Inevitably followed by Arthur wrenching away, shocked and grieved, denying Lancelot’s desires, _protecting_ him, denying denying denying. The life of a martyr.

The old bitterness settled, wrapped in its grief, moving him past Guinevere, past Camelot, flashes behind his eyes coming closer, sorrow ever outweighing the meager happiness Lancelot was reluctantly allowed.

He was looking for Arthur. It felt like he’d been looking for Arthur for a lifetime, never quite able to catch the wraith that so adeptly hid in the shadows of Arthur’s eyes.

“He’s not here.” Her chilly voice carried across Arthur’s bedroom, snaking its way to Lancelot, slithering under his skin and calling forth a shudder that had nothing to do with the sudden drop in temperature.

“My Queen. I didn’t realize you were here.” After so many years the masking of that insolence had become habit. The hidden mockery didn’t even amuse him anymore.

“Apparently not.” Face matching the walls—blank stone—only interrupted by the fire of her eyes. A look she reserved exclusively for Lancelot and if everything about her didn’t revolt him so, he might find that funny.

“Where has Arthur gone, if I may ask?”

“The leader of the Ordovices wanted a meeting. Arthur is away to confer with him.”

“Shouldn’t he come to Arthur?” It was hardly as though the provincial leaders could call their King away like a common errand boy.

“Not this time.” Voice freezing the air around them, Guinevere still had never forgiven him for that which he could not control.

Lancelot bowed. “I shall leave you be.” He turned to go, aggravatingly stopped by her voice calling for him to wait. And his vows necessitated that he stay, do her will.

“Yes, my Queen?” he asked, turning back and watching as she wandered the room, plucking at the fineries of a royal life, collected over years of a good and just rule, honest tributes to greatness.

She cast a sly, knowing glance his way, mocking his obedience. “Did you need Arthur for anything?” she asked finally, pause making him feel his subservience. Years ago it might have rankled. So used to it had he become, it was hardly worth the effort even to note its intent.

“Nothing that can’t wait,” he said simply, not elaborating and obvious about it.

Her eyes turned molten, breaking the cold spell settled on the room. “You’ve never respected me as Queen,” she hissed, whirling and advancing on him, no less menacing for her age and sex.

He did not smile. He did not even react. “That is not true, my Queen. I have done everything you’ve ever asked and it’s a taint to my honor for you to suggest otherwise.” 

Lancelot’s flatness seemed to anger her even more. “Oh, you’ve done what I asked, for sure. But only on account of Arthur and only because you were bound by your loyalty to him. Such a shame you had to pledge to both of us,” she ground out, dark eyes flashing, still beautiful for all that grey now ran through her shining hair, for the softness where once there was strength.

The same could be said of him, he knew.

“Arthur would say I did not _have_ to do anything,” he said, ironic quirk to his lips.

“Arthur has always been far more an idealist than you or I. And to stay with him you had to take me.”

“Yes, it was quite effective, your little coup,” he shot back, feeling his blood rise. This was why he rarely allowed himself to have extended contact with her. She stole Arthur from him and the knowledge was written into her eyes, onto her skin and it called for him to wipe it away.

“It worked didn’t it?”

“Yes. You got everything you wanted.”

“Except your loyalty.”

“The only thing you’ve ever wanted from me was my absence.” Harsh now.

“From my husband’s thoughts, perhaps,” she volleyed back.

“Should have thought of that before you went to Arthur, ‘anything for country’ occupying your thoughts. Really, I must commend you. Any other woman and we’d have a special name for her.”

The slap rang in his ears before the distant pain made itself known to him, stinging across his cheek in a perverted caress.

He grinned with his next words. “But I suppose you’ve done well enough for yourself that it is of no matter any longer.” 

She was—trembling and affronted and fiery like she stood in his memories, inextricably linked to a man that no one could ever outshine. That was how he chose to remember her, how he chose to remember them all, and it was only a slight shock to find her in front of him, so similar to those olden days when things were far less complicated.

He bowed, letting the disdain show in his eyes, old habit that he only now realized he missed. “I apologize, my Queen. That was uncalled for.”

Guinevere stepped into him, using his belt to pull him close, breathing onto his lips: “Don’t coddle me.” And kissed him, a woman in bloom again, like she had been when they’d fought together, once upon a time.

She pushed him back and back, simmering anger finally breaking through, no little violence in her blows.

Lancelot smirked and allowed it. “Don’t like it, do you? The weight of responsibility?” He caught up her hands and pulled her close, falling back onto the bed and rolling them over, trapping her squirming with his larger frame. He released her hands, eyes telling her he could hold her there even without that advantage.

“I’d like it better if your shadow wasn’t ever-present in this bed.”

“And I’ve never been here. A sad commentary on your skills?” Now that she’d loosened his tongue, he couldn’t seem to stop. Self-destruction always was a skill of his.

Guinevere growled angrily and pushed up, attacking his mouth, nails biting into his shoulder through his tunic. She pulled away, scrabbling at his clothing and pulling it off, violent toss of his belt a statement on its own.

“And what’s your excuse?” she asked, bitter but still burning underneath him, helping him push her skirts out of the way. “Itching to finally have something of Arthur’s, anything to hold onto, even if you hate it?”

“You have always been an insolent little girl,” he snarled, taking her mouth, teeth bruising and tongue claiming and Lancelot didn’t even care anymore. Anything to shut her up.

He took her there, like that, half-dressed and rutting like dogs in a back alley and just as dirty. She scratched and bit, bucking into him, hands tangling painfully into his hair and keening against her will.

Lancelot held her down and sought the warmth he knew hid underneath the surface, alternately burning into her and freezing numb the hole in his chest. He made a mockery of her pleasure, pulling it out of her, calling it forth until she couldn’t help but give voice to an ecstasy she loathed. The sound of it satisfied him less than that she would _know_ this, that its memory would be branded into her more effectively than any fire could hope to brand flesh.

And when he reached completion he called out a name he’d wanted to cry in passion for so very long.

Guinevere shoved him off and fixed her clothing, breathing shaky and fingers trembling. But she didn’t leave the bed.

He sightlessly looked up, wondering if Arthur had ever asked for forgiveness in this bed, but the thought floated away when Guinevere spoke.

“How was it, then? Get what you wanted?”

“You’re a frigid bitch,” he said, soft like a gentle snow painting her hair with white flecks, a bright spot of color in an achingly desolate land.

“I wonder how that came to be.”

“I don’t.”

Silence crept in again, Lancelot feeling her breathe next to him, quiet and still like she’d had to learn to be. Necessities of office and all that.

“Did you ever think it would be like this?” she asked, serious.

“Did I ever think I’d fuck my King’s wife in his own bed? Can’t say so, no.”

She ignored him. “It doesn’t seem real. That we chose this. It didn’t seem like _this_ was on offer.”

He turned his head, eyes slipping over her profile, a flare of sympathy at that.

“No. No it didn’t.”

***

Lancelot was shocked from the water, rough hands pulling him out by his belt, frantic fingers pushing away his matted hair. A woman’s gleeful laughter faded from his hearing and his mind drifted to silvery fingers at his throat.

“Lancelot? Lancelot?” Ahh, Arthur, then. And worried, from the sound of it.

He coughed and tried to roll onto his side, hands helping him until he could just rest and breathe. Opened his eyes to find a very familiar lake. Scenes played over and over before his eyes, different actions, similar outcome.

“God, Lancelot, what were you _doing_? You were face-down in the lake. You could have _died_.” Strangled horror in that voice and Lancelot distantly remembered that he was mad at Arthur. “I didn’t mean to—I hope you didn’t—”

He coughed again, clearing his throat. “You certainly think highly of yourself.” He tried to snort dismissively—and ended up coughing again.

It somewhat ruined the effect.

Arthur was suddenly quiet beside him, hand now resting on his flank, but still and unmoving. Lancelot turned onto his back, wincing at the pull of soggy and clinging clothes, uncomfortable jab of armor. These really were not made for such treatment. His armorer was going to have his head.

Lancelot got a better look at Arthur, brooding apparently, and rolled his eyes. “I’m fine, Arthur. I appreciate the rescue. My hero,” he snickered, purposeful.

The heat of Arthur’s glare warmed the chill from the lake and really, Lancelot appreciated that. “I’m so happy to serve for your amusement,” he said, stress making him sarcastic, shaky hand betraying him even had that not.

“I’m sure. Well, all those stories seem to be true. Good to know.” He sat up stiffly and shook out his hair, spraying water all over and generally making a nuisance of himself.

“Are you telling me—”

“No, I’m making it up.” He waved away Arthur’s imminent protestation and looked at the man more carefully. “Came to apologize, did you?”

“ _Me_?”

“Of course.” Just a different variation on their same old fight and that was always Arthur’s fault because he was being impossible. As usual. 

Shock and concern run their course, now Arthur was angry. “Lancelot, this is not all my—”

He cut him off, simply by leaning in and covering Arthur’s lips with his own. He met stiff resistance with persistence and Arthur eventually softened, responding with heat and everything Lancelot had already known.

Pushed back and he’d known that, too.

“Lancelot—”

“Don’t start,” he cut him off. Arthur just wasn’t having much luck with complete sentences these days. “I know what you’re going to say, so save us both some time and a lot of anguish and accept it. I will not let you make my choices for me. I will not let you make both of us miserable for the rest of our fucking lives.”

Arthur tried to interrupt him, but Lancelot talked through it. And Arthur was stupid enough to try and be polite.

“I’ve heard it. I don’t care. I want this. I won’t accept anything else.”

Arthur waited for more, so Lancelot rolled his eyes and gestured for him to go ahead with his feeble protestations.

“I’m not making choices for you—”

“You are! That’s exactly what you’re doing, you jackass, and I refuse your refusal. So here’s a new idea for you to brood over in that fetching way of yours: we are better together, united.” He stood, shaking out water as best he could before shrugging his appearance off. If pressed, he could always say Arthur pushed him in. “New rules, Arthur. I no longer recognize the old.”

With that, Lancelot leaned down and kissed Arthur again, holding his head when he would move away, waiting until he got the response they both wanted. Quick press of tongue had Arthur breathing out sharply and Lancelot pulled back, liking the way Arthur’s eyes had darkened, where his hair curled from Lancelot’s hands.

He walked away this time. It was different now. Maybe their end would be, too.

***

Fin. Feedback is adored.


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